A Breakfast to Arms
by frankenfeels
Summary: So it seems to be very popular fanon that Lestrade is a widower. How did this happen? From sherlockbbc fic.


**Title**: A Breakfast to Arms

**Author**: porpoise-song

**Characters**: Gregory Lestrade and his wife Catherine; and then mentions of Sherlock and John.

**Rating**: G

**Disclaimer**: Unless I want Weeping Angels and the Crack to follow me (Steven Moffat), umbrella shaped bruises on me (Mark Gatiss), red coats storming my place (BBC), and a Victorian Age dressed zombie chasing me (Sir Author Conan Doyle), I need to say that I own absolutely nothing.

**Summary**: From anonymous: "So it seems to be very popular fanon that Lestrade is a widower. How did this happen?"

****Warnings**: **A woman dying in childbirth and a stillborn.

**A/N**: Prompt from anonymous at sherlockbbc_fic's Prompting XV. Also not _completely _about whether I gave Lestrade too much years as a widower. Eh, whatever.

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><p>Lestrade pours himself another glass of scotch and pounds it down. It's his fourth glass. He's in his flat, it's around eleven at night, it's quiet, and he's alone. His heat kicks on and Lestrade heaves out a weary, poignant sigh and lays his head down. It's been a tiring day. He'd been running after Sherlock and his reign of destruction all day after a series of particularly grisly killings of old ladies.<p>

However, that's not why Lestrade is drinking, if that was the case, he would be drinking almost every night. Today is Thursday, February 3 and, to anyone else, it's just another Thursday, but, to Lestrade, it's the tenth anniversary of the death of his wife, who died during childbirth.

It had become sort of a tradition and ritual to drink a few glasses of scotch, tear the flat up a bit, and then pass out on the couch with his hand down his pants every February 3. Scotch is a drink that makes him feel miserable—it burns his insides and kills him, but, in a way, makes him feel quite good. It's a miserable drink, but he quite likes the taste that he has developed for it over the past decade.

Every May 4, on her birthday, he drinks a few glasses of vodka—her favourite drink—and watches "Breakfast at Tiffany's" a few times—her favourite movie—before passing out on the couch with his hand down his pants. Vodka, on the other hand, lights up his insides and makes him feel good. It's a happy drink, she would tell him as she ordered another one; you drink it when you're happy—you drink scotch when you're sad, but, especially, when you want to feel even worse. In his other three-hundred and sixty three days, he would go about his day; focused on work, on the moment, on the future, on his team, on Sherlock, and, all the while, subconsciously tapping or fiddling with his wedding ring.

He met Catherine after a particularly rough game of rugby. She had commented on how she wouldn't mind playing rugby if it meant being tackled by fellas like him. She flashed him a pearly white smile and then started to laugh when he gave her a dumbfounded, dazed look. The first thing he noticed about her was her long, wavy, inky hair—the blackest black he had ever seen—and he was instantly memorized by it; he couldn't help it.

When both their relationship and Lestrade's police career started becoming serious—and when he started seeing countless murder victims, rape victims, and when it all just started simply becoming _too much_—she would take down her hair and let it cascade around his head. The tumble of her hair reminded Lestrade of being enclosed inside a tent or behind a waterfall. He felt peaceful and it soon became his blissful seclusion from the world.

He loved the smell of it: apples and sunshine. He didn't have any idea how she always got her hair to smell like that, even when there hadn't been a ray of sun in London at all that day. Ah, it's magic, she would tell him; this would quickly be followed by some _fantastic _sound effects, arm gestures, giggles, and an embrace.

After they had been dating for almost three years, they accidently got engaged. When Lestrade was seeing Catherine off, at the airport, to Jerusalem for three months, either he or she had said something about marriage ('I think she was talking about missing _her friend's wedding_', he later thought) and both of them said yes. Yes to what, they weren't exactly sure, but then they both said their goodbyes and departed.

Later that week, when it was awkwardly brought up during their phone conversation (by whom, he didn't know), she reasoned that she loved him and he loved her; Catherine didn't know about him, but marriage sounds pretty dandy, so why the hell not? "Not exactly a fairytale engagement, but I'm sure we can come up with something clever when our children ask someday", she cheerfully said—and that's how the introduction of the possibility of miniature versions of him and Catherine was brought up as well.

The wedding was a simple, but intimate event. With Lestrade's budding career in law enforcement—and the long hours that it entitled—Lestrade's large group of friends had dwindled to only a handful, so he was resorted to ask Tobias Gregson to be his best man. It wasn't one of his best ideas, but Catherine seemed to have had a good laugh at Gregson's best man toast, heavily laden with dirty jokes and insults aimed at Lestrade.

The next two years was filled with failed attempts at conception, but by June of 2004, they had achieved success. They spent the nine months doing the typical new parent things, such as baby proofing the flat and agreeing that they would, eventually, buy a house.

One morning, he awoke at around three o'clock, hearing Catherine stirring in bed. "You alright, love?"

"Oh, I've just been having a bit of pain."

"Regularly?"

"No—not really."

"When they become regular, wake me up and we'll go to the hospital." A little while later, she woke him and told him that he'd better take her to the hospital. She packed a bag while he called for a cab. The night was clear and the stars were out. Catherine was very excited.

"I'm so glad it's starting", she said as she wobbled out to the cab. "In a while, it will all be over."

"You're being a good brave girl." Once they arrived at the hospital, he carried the bag inside and a woman at the desk checked them in.

"Here is your room", the nurse said after she had taken them up in the lift and down the hall. "Please change into this night-gown and get into bed." She turned to Lestrade, "Would you mind stepping out for a moment?"

Once Catherine had changed and Lestrade came back, she told the nurse, "I'm having some great pains now." A pinched, flushed look came over her face, "Like that—that was a big one." The nurse held her wrist and was timing the pains with a watch.

Lestrade glanced, worriedly, at his wife. "Where's the doctor?"

"He is downstairs, sleeping; he won't be here until he is needed." The nurse looked at Catherine, "I must do something for her, now. Would you mind stepping out again?" Lestrade went out into the hall again. It smelled of hospital; he sat on a chair, looked at the floor, and prayed for Catherine.

"You can come in", the nurse called out and he went in.

"Hello, dear", Catherine said to him brightly.

"How is it?"

"They're coming quite often now." Her face drew up and then she smiled. "That was a real one. Go and get something to eat, dear—the nurse says I'll be doing this for a long time." Lestrade hesitated and stayed for a while as the pains came quite regularly, and then slackened off.

Finally, he left for the canteen when the nurse told him that he had time for breakfast. When he returned back to her room, she was gone and it took him a while to find a nurse. "Where is Mrs. Lestrade?"

"The delivery room—I'll take you to her now." She took him to the end of the hall where he could see Catherine lying on a table through the partly open door. "Here's a gown", she handed him a green gown and opened the door for him to enter.

They had gone to the hospital at about three o'clock in the morning. At noon, Catherine was still in the delivery room; the pains had slackened again and she looked very tired and worn, but she was still cheerful.

"Do you think I'll ever have this baby?" she asked.

"Yes, of course you will", he told her.

"I didn't expect it to take this long." Her face drew and then she continued in a strange voice, "I always figured it would be hard and tiring, but not _this _hard and tiring."

"Mr. Lestrade", the doctor called to him and pulled him aside, away from Catherine. "I made an examination", and then he told Lestrade the detailed results of the examination. "I waited to see if anything would change, but it hasn't"—

"What do you advise then?" Lestrade's voice accidently took on an edge. He was exhausted and sick with worry over his wife and this doctor was taking _far _too long to get to his point.

"A Caesarean—it wouldn't be any more dangerous than an ordinary delivery and I will perform it myself."

"Alright, alright", Lestrade heaved out and then glanced at Catherine. Her face was very pale and tired. Almost immediately, a new doctor came in with two nurses, lifted Catherine onto a wheeled gurney, and started down the hallway to the operating room. Lestrade waited outside while they performed the operation, occasionally looking out the window, and watching the rain trickle and drop against the window.

A doctor came out, then a nurse did as well, closely following him; the doctor was holding something in her hands that looked like a freshly skinned rabbit and hurried across the corridor and into another room. Lestrade followed them and saw them doing things to the newborn. The doctor held her up for him to see.

"Is she fine?" he calmly asked the nurse.

"Yes—just fantastic. She'll weigh four kilos." However, Lestrade didn't have any feelings for her; he had no feeling of fatherhood. He had always thought—always reassured himself—that he would, suddenly, when the child was born, feel _something _that was strong, burning, and infinite, but he felt nothing. "Aren't you pound of your daughter?" They were washing her and wrapping her in something. He saw the little dark face and dark hands, but didn't see her move or hear her cry. The doctor looked upset as she continued working.

Lestrade didn't respond and went out in the hall to see Catherine. He entered the room, but stood near the door. He thought that she was dead—she looked like it, anyway. Her face was gray.

"How is she?" he asked the doctor after he was finished sewing Catherine up.

The doctor gave him a tired look before finally saying, "She's alright."

"How's the baby?" Catherine called out in a tired voice.

"She's fine—she's just beautiful."

"That's wonderful!" she called out.

"Mrs. Lestrade—don't talk, rest please", the doctor told her. The Doctor then gave Lestrade a strange look and muttered to him, lowly, "Don't you know?"

"Know what?"

"She was stillborn—she wasn't alive. They couldn't get her to breath. The cord was caught around her neck or something. I'm sorry."

Lestrade looked away and let out a sigh. "No, no—thank you, but it's fine." He motioned to the door, "If you don't mind, I need some coffee."

"Of course."

He went down to the canteen and was having some coffee, when he was called over the intercom to come back to the operating room. Something dropped inside of him. He hurried back and met the nurse coming down the hall. "What is wrong?" he asked the nurse.

"Mrs. Lestrade has had a hemorrhage."

His fists tightened slightly, as if he could beat up the hemorrhage and make it stop—beat the hemorrhage up until it promised to _stop _killing his wife. "Can I go in?"

"The doctor is still with her—you'll have to wait." The nurse went back into the room and shut the door.

Lestrade leaned against a wall and, gradually, slid down to the floor. Everything inside of him was gone and he started praying that she would not die, although he knew that it was likely that she would. 'Oh, God, please don't let her die. I'll do anything for you if you don't let her die. Please, please, please, dear God, don't let her die. Dear God, don't let her die. Please, please, please don't let her die. God please make her not die. I'll do anything you say if you don't let her die. You took the baby, but don't let her die. That was all right, but don't let her die. Please, please, dear God, don't let her die.'

The nurse opened the door and quietly told Lestrade that he could enter now. He followed her into the room. Catherine did not look up when he came in, but finally did when he stood next to her bed. She smiled at him and he bent down over the bed and started to cry.

"Poor Gregory", she said very softly.

"You're alright, Cat. You're going to be alright", he whispered to her.

"I know I'm going to die", she said simply. "I'm not one of those silly people who think that they're going to live forever." She paused and said, "I'm not afraid—I just hate it. This isn't the good death I've always prayed for."

Lestrade gently took her hand. "Do you want a priest or anyone else?"

"No", she struggled to pat his arm. "Just you."

"You are talking too much", the doctor said. "Mr. Lestrade must leave now, but he can come back later."

"Okay", she said. It was very hard for her to talk. "Goodbye, Gregory, dear." He stood up and went into the hallway. A little while later, one of the nurses came out and told him she was very worried about Mrs. Lestrade.

"She's not dead—but she's unconscious."

Catherine kept having one hemorrhage after another and they couldn't stop it. He went into the room and stayed with her until she died. She was unconscious the whole time and it did not take her very long to die. Nothing in life is as ugly as death.

The nurses came in and tried to get him out, but he yelled at them until they left. After that—and after he had shut the door and turned off the light—it wasn't any good. It was like saying goodbye to a statue. After a while, he went out and left the hospital and walked back to the flat in the rain.

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><p>Lestrade knew that Sherlock knew about his tradition and his wife. He could tell it from his slightly pinched expression on his face the first time they had met on a February 4, four years ago. Sherlock would have known that he only drank on February 4 and May 4, not any other day, and knew that those two days held significance to Lestrade. He would have noticed the wedding ring, but nothing else that indicated that Lestrade had a wife or a family. If Sherlock had checked up on him, as Lestrade did on him, then it would have confirmed his conclusions that Lestrade was a widower of five or more years, lived alone, had not dated since, and still mourned his wife.<p>

Lestrade thought that it was very tactful of Sherlock for him not to mention it or bring it up, especially when he became annoyed with him. When a sudden gust of wind blew across them and John got a whiff of scotch—his face turning sour and his eyes turning to Lestrade—Sherlock was kind enough to distract John and, if he ever did tell John, he did it away from Lestrade. Whether Sherlock did this because he couldn't _stand _to have "nihilarian kind of talk" around him while he was trying to think or, because somewhere in Sherlock, he thought he was being kind. Either way, Lestrade was thankful.

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><p><strong>AN**: And, yes, as I said on the meme, I _know _Catherine's death is like Catherine's death from Ernest Hemingway's "A Farewell to Arms", but, once again, you can't go wrong with the Hemingway.


End file.
